Troubled Waters

by Trevor Burton

‘Perhaps he went out on a bender, even back to Norway?’

  ‘We need to wait for more information, but my understanding was that he was teetotal.’

  ‘Oh! That does complicate matters,’ she says, wide-eyed.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I agree and continue on to tell her the salient points of the meeting.

  ‘A very successful meeting, though, at the end. Jamie should be well happy,’ says Amelia.

  ‘We’ll know when he gets the call from his lawyer in the morning, but yes, we couldn’t really have expected any more cash.’

  ‘Does that mean we are involved in what happened to Hans now?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know the reason for his disappearance, and it was not a question I wished to speculate on whilst negotiating Jamie’s contract. Benson didn’t say any more than I have told you, but when the contract is signed , which hopefully Jamie will sign straight away, then I will have a word. I can’t imagine FrackUK will leave it much longer before informing the police.’

  ‘What about his family?’ Amelia asks.

  ‘I’m afraid he never talked about his private life with me.’

  ‘You’d think someone from the family would have contacted the police by now though, wouldn’t you?’ she questions.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘but of course they might have remained in Norway. He could even have travelled over there for the weekend, and something happened there.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she accepts. ‘But if there is foul play, it looks too much of a coincidence with the protesters and the connection with the body in the Irwell, etc.’

  Arriving at Crewe, our speculation pauses. We collect the Saab from the long-stay car park and continue to discuss the day’s events as I drive. I drop off Amelia and complete my journey home, quite weary after the strange events of the day.

  Chapter 15

  Greater Manchester Police were back at Salford into Work, in the form of Detective Sergeant Maurice Evans and Detective Sammy Wang. They were re-interviewing key staff who might be able to provide more insight into Barry Milton and the deceased Marian Clowes. They were cooped up in a dingy back office normally reserved for such prestigious guests as auditors, and inspectors from the funding body.

  Phil Biggins, who went under the grand title of training director, was feeling the strain. He had been an English teacher prior to joining the company, but had struggled with the lack of respect. Unable to discipline pupils, he became disillusioned and left the profession, now coordinating the government training contracts at Salford into Work. Whilst not exactly dumb, he was not streetwise, and had easily been duped by Barry Milton when another signature was required to authenticate claims. He was slim and tall, with curly blond hair. The girls thought he looked like the Hoff from the TV show Baywatch, and while they found him attractive, if somewhat immature, they soon discovered they could easily manipulate him. Phil had not himself falsified any documents, though. What was gnawing away at his insides was trouble at home: he suspected his wife and mother of his two children of infidelity. He had no proof, but her insistence on attending drama classes at the local college, even under the most difficult circumstances, convinced him she was seeing someone. He knew from his own experience as a teacher how easy it was for a pupil to become infatuated with a mentor, but she said most of the group went for a drink after class. It seemed to Phil that one drink lasted an awful long time. He’d called her mobile a couple of times in the daytime over the last few weeks only to find it switched off. The usual excuses – battery not charged, out of range – appeared lame.

  As for Barry Milton, there had been no sighting, despite watching his last known address for a week, and nothing from information passed to airport checkpoints. Evans’s opinion was that he’d scarpered immediately after the body of Marian Clowes had been found in the river Irwell. He was probably sunning himself right now somewhere on the Costas.

  The two policemen had already re-interviewed Sophia and Suzy, and found their testimony no different than first time round.

  Phil was in a world of his own, still analysing over and over his suspicions about his wife’s possible infidelities, when the two girls returned from the interview room. A look passed between him and a frightened-looking Sophia.

  ‘Is everything OK,’ Phil asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. They want you again now,’ she replied.

  Phil made his way to the interview room and sheepishly entered. His perceived interrogators, sat behind a large table with a single chair placed centrally in front. There was nothing else in the room, save for an out-of-date calendar from the year before. Be free, learn about computers, it read. Lighting was provided by one murky fluorescent tube, he observed, but at least it wasn’t a single bulb. Phil was fearful.

  ‘Please be seated, Mr Biggins,’ Evans ordered, waving him to the chair.

  Phil sat down awkwardly. ‘Am I under arrest?’ he stammered.

  ‘No, Mr Biggins, you’re not,’ Evans explained. ‘We would have invited you down to the station if that were the case. We’re merely talking to a few people again to clearly establish that we have all the information available , mostly to do with the timings of people’s movements on the night of Friday 14th November.’

  ‘Right, OK,’ he nodded, relieved.

  ‘We did meet last time, if you recall,’ Evans reminded him. ‘This is Detective Wang.’ Evans gestured to his right.

  Phil nodded towards Sammy Wang.

  Evans began. ‘On the night of the murder you left the Lowry Hotel before Marian Clowes, is that correct?’

  ‘Umm, yes, I think so, but it wasn’t very much before. I did try to get over to say goodnight, but it was very crowded and she was with a group of people.’

  ‘Why did you leave early, before the party was over?’ Evans probed.

  ‘The party was beginning to break up. I’d promised I would leave at nine o’clock because my wife was visiting her mother in hospital. The next-door neighbour had popped in to babysit for the evening but couldn’t stay any later than nine thirty.’

  ‘Can you remember exactly what time it was that you left?’ Sammy Wang asked.

  ‘I think it was getting towards nine,’ Phil answered.

  ‘And how did you get home?’ Evans enquired.

  ‘I walked back here to the office where I park my car.’

  ‘When you left, where was Marian?’ Sammy probed.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I thought I just said she was in the bar area with the rest of the crowd.’

  ‘Yes we know that but who exactly was she talking to at the time you left?’ Evans explained.

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean. She and some of the other girls were being chatted up by a group of men, and some looked like footballers to me.’

  ‘Did you speak to her at all during the evening?’ Evans asked.

  ‘Not really, I wished her happy birthday when I arrived along with some of the others.’

  Not getting far on this line of enquiry, Evans changed tack. ‘How much did you know about the false claims that Barry Milton was making to the funding body?’

  Phil became flustered. ‘I told you last time I didn’t know anything at all about the false claims.’

  ‘Do you expect us to believe that?’ Sammy demanded. ‘It seems to have been common knowledge around the office that he was up to something dodgy.’

  ‘But surely I’ve already made it plain to you that my job was to organise training and deal with the training aspects with the funding body? I never got involved in any of the claim procedures.’

  ‘But you signed off some of the paperwork,’ Evans persisted.

  ‘Yes, but that was only so that the same signature didn’t appear on the summary form as well as on the back-up evidence. I didn’t have any idea they were forging signatures on the evidence.’

  ‘And the buying of NI numbers in pubs and from jailbirds?’ Evans added.

  ‘Of course not. I had no idea he was of that bent. You must believe me,’ Phil begg
ed.

  ‘So you’re saying you were manipulated?’ Sammy asserted.

  ‘I suppose I must have been,’ Phil said in embarrassment.

  Evans shook his head in exasperation. ‘OK, let’s leave it there for now.’

  Once Phil Biggins, training director, had left the room, Sammy spoke. ‘Do you think he’s as dumb as he makes out, boss?’

  ‘Sure looks that way, doesn’t it? Look, we’re not getting very far here. Should we call it a day? I’ll buy you a pint – only the one, mind. We can leave the car here in the car park and walk down to that new bar down towards the Lowry hotel.’

  ‘Can’t say to no to that,’ Sammy answered. ‘I’m knackered.’

  ‘Thought you looked a bit tired,’ Evans agreed. ‘Spending too much time swotting up for your sergeants’ exams, are you?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. It is certainly very hard,’ Sammy agreed. ‘It seems we’re expected to know everything about everything, and be social workers as well as nicking criminals off the street, only for them to get off with a slap on the wrist.’

  ‘Are you still helping out in your folks’ restaurant business in Stockport, while they are away on holiday in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Yes, and the free food is great, but the late nights are getting to me a bit now. It’s been three weeks now, with another week to go, but hey, it’s probably the last time they will be able to make the trip. It’s very tiring at their age.’

  Arriving at the bar, Evans asked, ‘OK, what’s it to be then? One of these fancy lagers?’

  ‘I’ll stick to an ordinary old-fashioned pint of bitter,’ Sammy answered.

  ***

  As soon as he had realised that his was cover was blown, Barry Milton had scarpered on the first flight to Faro in the Algarve, Portugal. He had made his base in the town of Lagos, seventy-two kilometres to the west, after a week reconnoitring. He had moved fast, getting a cheap deal for a winter rental on an apartment. He had paid with a new credit card, which he would max out, and against which he would only make two or three minimum payments if necessary. He’d even used the credit card to rent a car for two weeks, which wouldn’t be going back: he would hold on to it for a few more weeks and then dump it. He had even managed a game of golf, renting a bag of clubs and a buggy from the club. There had been a group of English-speaking ladies in the bar afterwards, only too pleased to accept drinks from the tall dark and handsome stranger. Little did they realise that his patter would soon wheedle out which ones were ripe for the taking.

  Work was a little quiet in the winter, even for conmen like Barry Milton, but he was already onto something to tide him over. A large UK tour operator was looking for someone to check out local hotels part-time for next year’s summer season. He had convinced (conned) them into thinking he was the man for the job. The salary wasn’t fantastic, but to a conman as resourceful as Barry, it was a good start, and he had already made a plan. He would work it from both ends. The hotels he recommended would all be fantastic, and for his services the hotels would pay him an introductory commission for bringing them the contract, based on the contract value. The contract values were overinflated and the hotels were not up to standard. At the first sign of disquiet he would be off down the coast to the next town for another scam to tide him over until the summer, when he might consider it safe enough to return to the UK. To supplement this, his knowledge of sailing had enabled him to get another part-time consultancy position (sales) in a yacht brokers in Lagos marina. Life was good.

  Chapter 16

  Its early morning. I’ve checked on the pigs and chickens and all is fine – no duties for me today. I pick up about half of the eggs, leaving the rest for Lily who is now over the flu. Back into the house, I shower and change. In the kitchen I prepare breakfast: my freshly collected egg poached on lightly toasted wholemeal bread with nuts and fruit baked in it. My recipe is to add a splash of malt vinegar and extra virgin olive oil to the just-boiling water, then make a whirlpool before gently adding the egg. It turns out perfect every time.

  The anchor man on breakfast TV announces the change to the where you are segment, which gets my attention. The travel bulletin informs me that there are delays of an hour on the Crewe to Manchester rail line, owing to an incident. As always, I wonder what the definition of an incident is, before realising that it means I’ll have to drive the Saab into Stockport. Peering out of the window, fortunately it’s not raining. I couldn’t have that.

  When I park up at the back of the building on St Petersgate, I see Victor, my landlord, also parking his car. We stroll together round to the Enodo offices, chatting on the way – or rather he chats, as I listen, about his beloved Manchester City football team and the latest multi-million-pound signing. At the first floor landing we part with the US-style have a nice day, and I climb up the steep flight of stairs to the attic.

  ‘Morning!’ I call out to Amelia. ‘Train delays. Incident on the line, so I drove in.’ I suddenly realise that she travels the same line but on a stopping train, so I add, ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Morning,’ she hails back. ‘Same as you, I drove. I’ve only been here a minute. Didn’t you see my car?’

  ‘No, I was talking to Vic.’

  ‘Ah! It’s on your desk already.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The contract from FrackUK for Jamie Cropper. He has signed it, scanned it, e-mailed it back, and emailed a copy to you.’

  ‘Wow!’ I exclaim. ‘That is keen.’

  ‘Or desperate,’ she quips.

  ‘Yes, that’s true enough,’ I agree. ‘He was supposed to let me have a look before signing it.’

  ‘Maybe he will explain when he calls, presumably later today. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, any other news?’

  ‘No post yet. There’s an e-mail from that cosmetic surgeon. Are we going to help find his wife?’

  ‘Oh bugger, you know I can’t be doing with that kind of work,’ I mutter.

  ‘Don’t tell the bank manager. There’s also an e-mail from him enclosing a statement, overdrawn of course.’

  ‘You’re really cheering me up now.’

  ‘I’ll go get the coffee,’ she says, backing out of the door.

  Coffee finished, I’m pottering when Jamie phones.

  ‘Hi, I know I said to have a look through it before I signed, but I thought, damn, I might as well sign it and get it over with. Can’t afford to hang around.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been through it and I can’t see anything to worry about, and if your lawyer can’t either, well! That’s what you’re paying him for, after all.’

  ‘Yes, and the sooner I did sign, the sooner I’ll be seeing some cash in the bank.’

  ‘Know the feeling,’ I counter.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get paid soon enough,’ he shoots back.

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,’ I apologise.

  ‘No worries. What do you think about Hans Johansen, then?’ he enquires.

  ‘I really haven’t got a clue, at this stage, anyway. I’m sure Carl Benson must know more than he’s telling. I’ll have a word later. Maybe he’ll want some advice.’

  ‘Do you think it’s got something to do with these protesters?’ he asks.

  ‘I really don’t know. I’ve only met him a couple of times, and he seemed quite a steady individual, but you never know what people are hiding underneath.’

  ‘You’re right on that one,’ he agrees. ‘I’d better be off. Let me know if Benson tells you anything.’

  ‘Sure, will do,’ I finish, putting the phone down.

  Amelia has obviously overheard a lot of the conversation. ‘I’m not sure what he thinks you can do about the situation,’ she ventures.

  ‘No,’ I agree. ‘But I will call Benson later, and see what he has to say. It’s definitely a bit odd, especially as he has been in the UK for only six months. Unless that’s all he was meant to be here for – just to get the ball rolling on the detail contract ma
nagement side, and show Benson the ropes, as it were.’

  ‘You could have it there, but from what you told me, this Benson seemed to know what he was doing.’

  ‘Absolutely. A skilled and experienced operator in general business management, that’s for sure, but this Johansen has been in the nitty-gritty of north-sea oil rigs for many years. I might have a word with Bill Lambert first, to see if they – or anyone else for that matter – have filed a missing person report yet.’

  ‘Yes, it will be a week by tomorrow, won’t it? Although it’s not a great length of time for an adult to be AWOL, the fact that he missed an important meeting is strange in itself, isn’t it?’

  ‘Too true,’ I finish the conversation.

  I am pondering, staring out of the window for inspiration, and find myself counting the number of arches making up the Stockport railway viaduct. I keep thinking about Hans Johansen and his disappearance. Amelia comes with the post and more coffee.

  ‘Its bills and the taxman,’ she groans, placing the coffee down on the desk, along with a not requested but nonetheless welcome home-made ginger biscuit.

  ‘We need to pay off more than the minimum on the credit card,’ she advises. ‘It’s only building interest on interest.’

  ‘I get the message. Maybe Jamie Cropper will pay us quicker now that his contract is signed.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she agrees.

  ‘I’ve been thinking… can you do a bit of Googling for me, on Hans Johansen, to see if anything comes up? He might have some celeb status in Norway or something.’

  ‘Right, OK. Perhaps he trekked to the North Pole, or is a downhill skier or even a yachtsman,’ she imagines.

  ‘I’ve met him, remember. He’s not at all athletic – more like an internet entrepreneur. Skinny with glasses and sticky-up hair.’

  ‘A girl can dream,’ she counters, rushing off to answer the phone.

  I hear a brief smatter of conversation and a giggle, it must be a familiar voice and probably male. Amelia puts the caller on hold and pops her head around the door.

  ‘Bill Lambert, for you,’ she states.